Absence Makes The Heart Grow
by starshaker
Summary: As John struggles to accept that Sherlock Holmes really is back,Can Sherlock fix his mistakes?. inspired by cagedwriter61.livejournal's "cuddlemances" ...Parent!lock by Ch 7 Includes John Sherlock, Hamish, Gladstone, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft... who everyone wants to punch in the face
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock!" he shouts into the darkness. Another vicious nightmare woke John Watson from a fitful sleep before he fell back down onto his pillow wiping the sweat from his brow and tears from his cheeks breathing heavily. He lay there for several more minutes as his heart rate returned to a steady beat and breathing calmed. Glancing at the clock he saw it was a little after four am. He wasn't going to sleep any better the longer he lay there so pulling himself to the edge of the bed, he reached for his cane and descended to the kitchen of his small flat. Routinely he made himself a cup of tea and two slices of toast, with jam, cut into triangles. He then made his way back upstairs to his desk where sat a stack of case files Lestrade had delivered the day before, next to it a file from Mycroft Holmes: these John copied, annotated and pinned to a network of papers tacked and taped to a wall. A network of connections and leads that had been building for the past three years: A network which John attempted to analyse, as he had once witnessed his friend Sherlock Holmes do so skilfully.

He could follow the movement of a small gang with previous associations to the infamous web of Moriarty's as they moved around the country, distinctive killings showed many of their exploits from the North East of England and yet recently reports from closer to London had revealed similar methods of destruction. John turned to the files from Mycroft to find an extra page slipped in at the very back of the file in Mycroft's own hand. "_Intelligence suggests this group has also been related to activity in Switzerland, Florence and shootings in America, - MH_"

John often wondered whether Mycroft was helping to fuel John's hobby or as he also heard it referred to as mental self harm or damaging fixation by his psychiatrist, or whether he was just another tool to solve a problem to the national defence. John yawned as the sun filtered through the blinds on his window but continued to study the trail of reports.

The beeping of his watch sharply drew him out of his thoughts as he realised he was due at the surgery in half an hour. Throwing on a new shirt and pulling down a bunch of notes from the collaboration he stumbled out of the door, with his stick and hailed a cab.

It was an average day. Patients continuously filled his office with ailments of no great concern. Filling out his last prescription of the day his phone began vibrating on his cluttered desk.

_Anonymous tip has given the location of the last of Moriarty's followers. Raid planned for 20:00 hours. Briar's Lane, Linford. _

_- GL_

It was an open invitation and for all the research he and Lestrade had done to find this remaining group it was never a question as to whether John would be there or not.

Lestrade beckoned John over as he stepped out of the cab. Walking was difficult and he cane did not adapt well to the sodden earth of the track surrounded by police cars. Even after three years John was still annoyed by the looks of both pity and contempt from the officers as he limped towards Lestrade's car. His leg twinged again as he struggled to put weight on it. In his own head john cursed. He'd run all over London but his mind was a cruel master of his body creating the false pain and suffering of a damaged limb.

Lestrade got out of the car as John approached and spread a map of the building they were about to search over the bonnet. Across it in various colours were all the entrances and exits marked, surveillance access and backup which Lestrade pointed out and explain the strategy.

"Have you told Mary where you are tonight?" he asked. John looked t the floor. Mary resented John's behaviour on this topic calling it a manic obsession but for John it was closure on his best friend's death. Where john didn't reply an awkward silence fell over the pair

Lestrade and John weren't going to be going into the building initially, the team was prepped and at ten to eight began to move in on the derelict building. It was fifteen long minutes later that the first report came back to Lestrade. The attack team had discovered four occupants, two of which had been apprehended while another two had escaped and were thought to be armed. John turned to the map on the car behind them scanning for possible route of escape, or more likely as his research had shown, the gang members tended to disappear in crowds; Hidden in plain sight.

"Here." He said pointing to a night club three streets over which would almost certainly have both front and back entrances, and crowds in which it's easy to lose a face. John and Lestrade were first into the car heading for it and john is first out rushing up the steps and past the bouncer who backs off when he sees Greg following closely baring his police badge.

The front door opened to a short corridor then turned right into the main hall. John scanned the room and spotted a set of stairs leading up just behind the dj stand. Taking out his hand gun he turned to Lestrade and pointed to where he was going to investigate. The loud music would have drowned out any speech. Lestrade turned then to his officers to spread out through the dancers inconspicuously before he followed John's path and up the stairs.

The stairs led up to a landing scattered with boxes and doors lining two corridors. To the right a body leant up stuck out from behind a stack, Lestrade for vitals, whispered that he'd only bee knocked out and handcuffed him saying that we'd check the other rooms first. Lestrade motioned for them to split up to check both hallways. Scanning each room as he passed and all the time listening for the creak of floor boards though they'd probably be hidden by the music downstairs. A shadow of movement on the far wall caught his eye and John ducked down behind one of the boxes. When no-one came out of the room he crept forwards. Cautiously he ventured forwards.

"Don't move" a cold voice said behind him. John could feel a blade on his neck and

He knew for a moment he must have stopped breathing. Shutting his eyes to calm himself he silently prayed for Lestrade not to have fallen into a similar trap. There were only meant to be 3 or 4 men in the gang they were ambushing.

After a minute or so the man behind him withdrew the blade.

"Who are you?"

"Dr John Watson, I'm …" but John never got to finish that sentence.

"Son of a bitch!"

Lestrade ran towards John's voice after hearing the gunshot. At the top of the stairs he saw John walking towards him, his face emotionless.

"John! Are you all right? What's happened?" at the gunshot members of his team had started up the stairs, Donovan leading.

"One's dead and one's unconscious. I don't know which is better" john replied before pushing his way down the stairs before Lestrade could ask any more of him.

Lestrade asked one of the lower officers to call an ambulance then turned to Donovan and beckoned her to follow him. Gun still in hand he and Donovan entered the room to indeed find one man dead and another just coming round.

"My God is it really you?" Lestrade said from the doorway.

"Oh no. You cannot be serious" was all that came to Donovan's mouth.

"Truly Donovan, I have missed your wit and charm," said the tall dark haired man said, glaring at her through an overgrown mop of hair before pulling himself to lean again the wall.

"Donovan go get him some ice for his head there should be some behind the bar, check that ambulance is on its way and get the clean up squad up here," Lestrade ordered

"Yes sir," Donovan gladly obeyed to be out of the awkward situation and begin to spread the story that the great Sherlock Holmes was back. She couldn't wait to see the look on Anderson's face.

"Aren't you going to say how much you missed me too?"

"You'd take far too much pleasure from it Lestrade. Where's John?"

"He went home I guess, straight past me before I could find out what happened."

"How… where…" then Sherlock fell silent.

"Blimey mate; if I'd known three years would make you be quiet I would have locked you up years ago,"

Sherlock didn't reply. No sharp sarcastic remark. Lestrade rocked from foot to foot.

"It broke him to lose you, John I mean."

"He punched me,"

"You deserved it." Lestrade parried.

"I know." he paused. "Where will he be?"

"Probably gone home I expect, or Mary's"

"Mary?"

"He's engaged. Only person who could break through to him when he was in one of his dark periods,"

Sherlock's chest clenched. He never wanted to cause John so much pain. He knew what his own dark periods were like. How they haunted and drowned him; and he was the cause of John's pain.

"Three years Sherlock."

"It was… necessary," Sherlock replied, awkwardly

"Come on. I'll get one of the guys to drop you home." Sherlock gave a small smile

"I must have been away too long if you think I'm riding in the back of a police car inspector" he said getting up from the floor not even glancing at the body beside him.

"True. You must have."

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi at 221b Baker Street it seemed nothing had changed. The café had the same nodding dogs and plaid curtains. The railing on the other side of the door was crooked and his key slid into the lock as if he'd only been there yesterday. It was late and there was no sound of Mrs Hudson so she must have gone to bed.

He paused as he climbed each stair each creak building on his nerves. Three years of near death experiences and he was scared of apologising to the one man who had always believed in him. The hallway was cold and Sherlock shiver before pushing open the door of his… their…the flat…was even a part of it his any more. Everything appeared to be as he had left it. Yet his eyes were drawn to the bundle on the couch. Or at least that's what it looked like.

John heard the front door open, heard the stairs creak and saw from the corner of his eye, the door of their flat open so slowly he wondered whether Sherlock was coming in at all. Somehow he didn't know whether he wanted Sherlock to come in at all. He'd missed this man desperately for years, and now he hoped the most observant man in the world would overlook the curled up body on the couch.

John felt the dip of springs as Sherlock sat on the couch next to him and place his hand on John's shoulder. Heat radiated trough John's cold clothes and to the tender scar just below his collarbone.

John could hear Sherlock explaining why he'd gone, "I had to," Where he'd been, "Tracking down the last links of Moriarty's network" and apologising, over and over. It all lost in a blur, only that he could feel Sherlock there. It all felt like a dream, a torturous dream that he was going to wake up from and then Sherlock wouldn't be there anymore, just like the other dreams. Each time feeling more lost and alone that before, staring into darkness. He never wanted to fall asleep again, nor wake up. But inevitably, he did.

John saw him on St Bart's roof once again. Reaching out to him. "Help me John" then he's gone. Falling. And John can't get there in time. No way to stop it.

"Sherlock!"

This time John sobs. Helplessness and pain overcome him as he lies in his bed at Baker Street. He doesn't remember coming to bed, but that's not unusual when the grief takes hold. The door clicks and Mrs Hudson appears carrying a small tray with two cups of tea on it. Despite denying housekeeping she routinely brings him a cup of tea when she hears him wake in the night.

"He was back," John said shakily, "Oh God I dreamed he came back again, I, I can't… it's too much." Another sob escapes and Mrs Hudson puts an arm around his shoulders.

"Hush dear, hush. He has come back to us. He has." When John looked up he saw that she too had tears on her face, but she was smiling. John pushes her away, eyes wide and instantly regrets it believing he may have hurt her.

"John?" John turned to see Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway. His hair was a mess and sleep deprived eyes stared back at him, making no attempt to hide the worry and fear. In those eyes he sees what a broken man he has become. In those eyes he can see how terribly Sherlock blames himself; how desperately he wants to fix his mistake, and how scared he is to try.

"I'll just make myself scarce while you boys have a chat" Mrs Hudson said, though neither boy appeared to hear her.

"I, I can go if you want me to" Sherlock stumbles, eyes still locked on Johns. "I can just. Please, I just..." he trails off, unable to read John's reaction, clinging on to such desperate hope that maybe John can accept him back. He used to understand this man so well.

"Stay." It was barely a whisper and Sherlock believes he may have missed it if he hadn't been watching John so intently at the time. But upon hearing it a small smile found its way onto Sherlock's expression.

"John, I…thank you," he said, his voice only slightly louder than John's fuelled by relief.

Minutes passed and neither of them moved, until John broke eye contact, yawned and bet his head to his hands.

"I'll let you get some sleep then," Sherlock said, slowly turning to exit.

"wait…" John sleepy reply froze Sherlock to the spot. "Could you stay, here?"

"of course" Sherlock replied and without hesitation he sat on the edge of John's bed removed his shoes and socks and then lay down. He lay on his back, hands on his stomach and looked to John who had also lain down. John was under the covers, lying on his side facing Sherlock. Despite obvious fatigue john didn't shut his eyes but kept them fixed on Sherlock.

"John go to sleep. You have work tomorrow," he said reaching over to pull the top of the covers to John's shoulder. Leaving his hand resting there

"if you're gone in the morning " he mumbled. " I don't know what I'll do,"

"I'm not going anywhere,"

"you've said that before,"

"trust me,"

John muttered something unintelligible into the pillow and before long he was asleep. Sherlock also drifted off.

Sherlock dreamt he was back in St James church graveyard, stood just out of sight of two mourners stood over a new grave. He was downwind and could catch glimpses of their conversation though it appeared to be mostly one sided. Mrs Hudson was complaining of his experiments. John stoically. Only once Mrs Hudson had left his to himself did the emotionless mask break. He was angry. Sherlock moved forwards slightly but fought the urge to go to John. For his plan to work the world must think he was dead. Most importantly John must grieve.

"No one can say anything that will convince me you told me a lie" John said to the ether and Sherlock knew this may indeed be the last time he sees his faithful friend. The wind picks up and Sherlock misses John's next few words as he walks over and touches the polished gravestone. John makes to leave but pauses and returns to the foot of the grave. "One more miracle Sherlock. For me. Don't…be…"John chokes slightly "dead" he hangs his head and Sherlock can see that John is holding back tears now and Sherlock has to remind himself once more that this has to be done for John's safety. An expression covers John's face for a moment and Sherlock can't pinpoint it.

John wipes his final tears, vanquishes the last visible signs of grief and straightens his back, holding himself like a soldier. His defence mechanism Sherlock knows only to well. As John walks away Sherlock realises what the mystery emotion was; hope, desperate irrational hope. It was all the knowledge Sherlock needed to resolve that he would most definitely return to make things right with his friend. John Watson.

John woke slowly. Little by little realising there was someone lying next to him. Not just someone. Sherlock Holmes.

"Still here then," John muttered to Sherlock who still appeared to be asleep.

"I'm back now, I'm staying." Sherlock replied eyes still closed.

John was startled for a moment but he felt calm; calmer than he'd been in months.

"Do you ant any breakfast, you look like you haven't each since you…you" John stumbled over the words unable or sure to use died or left as most appropriate.

"Yes" Sherlock answered before John struggled much further.

As John prepared several rounds of toast Sherlock dressed and stepped into the kitchen as John put the plates on the table.

"There's still one of Moriarty's network left: His name is Sebastian Moran" He said as John sat down opposite him. "He is the second most dangerous man in London"

"Second to whom?"

"The only person who can stop him, obviously."

"You?"

"Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

John could barely concentrate on his patients all day at the surgery. Even when Sarah asked him if he was okay he didn't hear her until she repeated herself.

"Yes, yes fine," He said, sifting through messes of papers piling on his desk: files from patients he'd never bothered to return to the correct cupboards for weeks.

"That's good then,"

"Hm?" he said, still distracted.

Sarah grabbed his arm and looked him straight in the eye.

"If you're okay John, Then I'm glad," she said forcing a small smile. Hoping that this manic episode wasn't going to precede another dark period everyone found so difficult. John being a soldier hadn't helped him grieve his friend's passing. Bottling up all of his emotions had caused his psychosomatic limp to return. However today, she hadn't see his cane anywhere in the office

"I am Sarah, I'm feeling much better today," he said smiling back at her. Her smile returned, no longer forced. 'Maybe' she thought 'things are really going to get better.

At six o'clock Sarah was packing up the last of her things before leaving and she saw John walking past her door.

"See you tomorrow John," she called to him. He surprised her by bobbing back to the door.

"Yes, bye, Sarah, have a good evening," and waved before heading off again.

When she heard the front door close she crossed to the window which overlooked the main street. John had crossed the road and was talking to someone. He was taller than John, dark hair, long coat. He then reached to hail a cab and Sarah saw his face. She was speechless. No wonder John Watson had suddenly bounced back.

John felt jovial as he exited the surgery, but was momentarily taken aback when he saw Sherlock stood on the other side of the street.

"I thought you were working today? Have you spoken to Lestrade about tracking down this Sebastian Moren?"

"Mor_an, _John, and the police can't help me."

"Never can," John said with a sigh, but bypassed this argument for another day "What are you doing here then? Shouldn't you be tracking him down?"

"I know where he IS John," he said, fidgeting with his phone, glancing up and don the street.

"And that is?" John asked.

"Not important. It's where he's _going_ to be,"

"And that is?" Sherlock paused, locking eyes with John.

"Could be dangerous,"

"And here I am," John replied. The words resonated back to the very start of their friendship. Then both men laughed and hailing a cab Sherlock felt very much more at ease.

Once in the cab both men gazed out of their respective windows, before John broke the silence.

"So where are we going?"

"Baker Street."

"As in our Baker Street?"

"Of course."

"Of course?" John said sarcastically "No. Going to explain any more? I thought we were going to where Moran was,"

"Yes,"

"Explain,"

"Have you lost all capacity to think since I've been gone?" Sherlock snapped.

"Not much call for it?"

"But I've seen your map, some of those pieces were from just after I left, you must have been doing something," he said waving at John flippantly, only after realising then that John appeared to be looking at the floor, cheeks slightly flushed.

"You weren't meant to see that," he said quietly, only just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock felt a slight guilt at bringing on such a reaction from him.

"I, err… It appeared to be very… thorough,"

"Thanks," John mumbled.

After a minute of silence John almost felt he could count off he was about to look at his companion when his companion spoke up.

"We are going to Baker Street yes, but not 221, there's an empty flat on the opposite side of the street that I hope to gain access to. Sebastian Moran is on a revenge mission since the death of Professor Moriarty, who was essentially his boss, employer, mentor probably very close considering the lengths he's going to eradicate me. He shall most likely be targeting the flat and from the empty flat we can see any attempt of attack on the flat,"

"Wait a minute. What about Mrs Hudson, she's in that flat and she's always in and out of our rooms,"

"She's perfectly safe,"

"IS she?"

"Moran is a very specific killer, specialised weapons and select targets. He doesn't kill for pleasure like Moriarty or to spread fear. He kills each time for a for specific purpose,"

"And this time, its you,"  
"He can't go after you, Mrs Hudson or Lestrade without disgracing himself in the eyes of his mentor. The bond between mentor and student often influences the student's moral compass: Last requests, doing something because 'they would have wanted it'. It's all very common."

"I see,"

The cab pulled up at the end of Baker Street as Sherlock requested and the pair made their way down a back alley before climbing the fence and Sherlock took out a key to open the door.

"Where on earth did you get that?"

"Mrs Hudson keeps a spare set of keys for this flat when the owner's not letting it." Sherlock replied as John rolled his eyes.

"You enjoy stealing things far too much," to which Sherlock grinned before shouldering open the stiff old door.

After stumbling through the door and locking it again behind him. The house was much the same layout to their own, if a little wider than 221 and John followed as Sherlock found his way to the second story and peered out of the left side window.

"How do you even know he will make a move now, or today?" John said, walking to the other window gazing over to his flat.

"Because he is efficient. He followed me back to London so is going to come after me as soon as he has gathered all the information he needs to track me down. The homeless network will be his quickest method; the longest it would take that information to spread is 24hours."

"So he'll be here by now?"

"Most likely,"

Minutes past as they stood watching for suspicious movement, John wary of the fact that Sherlock may have the patience of a brick and be under the impression they would be stood here all night. John looked over again to the flat, to see that Mrs Hudson must have drawn the blinds for them. He could see the silhouettes of Sherlock's possessions in clumsy stacks casting shadows next to the table and it looked like there was a figure sat at the table. Typing on _his_ laptop, he could see the figure's posture shifting periodically and John became aware of what he could possibly be learning.

"Sherlock..." John whispered.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked.

"There's someone in our flat,"

"I know,"

"Is it him? Shouldn't we be over there?"

"It's a dummy, a model, a trick of the light. How I hope to draw him out,"

"But it's moving,"

"Friend of mine,"  
"Well it won't be the skull…You made friends when you where gone?"

"Not exactly. I …" both men froze as they heard the back door open with a bang.

"Might be a neighbour come to check on things? Might have seen us sneaking around the back," John offered at a whisper.

"I suggest we move to one of the back rooms until we know for certain," Sherlock said, apparently ignoring john's statement whilst ushering him quickly the small bedroom across the hallway. As John stood awkwardly in the middle of the empty room, Sherlock closed the door all but a crack where he could watch for the intruder. John listened, hearing only his own breathing and the footsteps approaching them up the stairs. He dare not move for the floorboards creaking and giving them away, and he knew Sherlock would alert him if he needed to act.

John heard the man go into the front room and Sherlock waited so John took his cues from him. A few minutes later John heard the window slide open and the latch hold it in place with a click. Sherlock took out his phone, eyes still fixed on the gap of the door while he typed. Upon replacing his phone in his pocket he turned to John, beckoning him to approach slowly.

John reached Sherlock and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder when he reached him though he knew Sherlock would not have needed to see him stood there to know he was, despite still having his eyes glue to the crack of the door which he had opened a fraction wider so that John too could look out upon the empty corridor. Instead, John watched Sherlock's face for any sign of a change of plan.

A dull muffled shot echoed through the empty house and in a flash John was stood at the open doorway alone and Sherlock was now stood adjacent to the front bedroom where he stopped in the shadows, slightly crouched. Lower than eye level John realised and he stepped back slightly so he was better covered by the shadows of the room.

John froze, seeing movement in the opposite room. He watched as the man came into view with a dark coloured duffel bag in one hand, zipping it closed as he walked. When he reached the door Sherlock pounced to bring him down. There was little doubt in John's mind that this was Sebastian Moran but momentarily John wondered whether Sherlock had defeated Moriarty's web by pouncing on their backs.

Both men were now rolling on the floor, struggling for an advantage. Then something flashed in the dim light and John instantly recognised it.

"SHERLOCK! He's got a knife," John yelled. No longer frozen to the spot he attempted to intervene but only succeeded in being kicked in the gut by Moran which temporarily winded him.

Sherlock, upon seeing John fall back called out his name. However this gave Moran a second's opportunity and caught Sherlock across his arm with the knife. John may have been winded but when Sherlock's cry of pain rang out, a new energy spread through him. Pushing away from the wall he grabbed Moran's arm with the knife in it ramming it to the floor here the impact forced him to release the blade. Sherlock had grabbed the other arm and together they flipped their attacker on to his back and Sherlock brought out a pair of handcuffs and promptly fastened them, before hitting him across the head which knocked him out. This allowed John to get up and regain his breath. Sherlock stood but kept his foot on Moran's

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, John."

"I meant, where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine John. Lestrade shall be here shortly,"

"He caught you with that knife; I'd like to have a look at it,"

Sherlock didn't reply and kept his gaze fixed on Moran until Lestrade arrived. John was going to get a look at Sherlock's injury when they got home. Yet home felt so far away right now, in the long minutes until Lestrade was knocking on the door. John dropped the set of keys down to him from the second story window. John didn't want to leave Sherlock alone with Moran, despite him being unconscious and handcuffed.

"So I'm charging him with what?" Lestrade odiously repeated for the third time, "Attempted murder of you, plus a string of international murders linked to Moriarty, do you have any proof? Something I can give as evidence?"

"I'll text you the details and cases tomorrow. Can you manage yourselves until then?" Sherlock snapped. His arm was throbbing painfully where the knife had cut deep. He was keeping pressure on the wound but he could see John watching him as if he might faint at any moment.

Lestrade sighed, ran his fingers through his ever decreasing hair and took a step back; obviously admitting defeat for the moment. "First thing tomorrow I want those files."

Sherlock smiled and turned to John, his eyes showed how exhausted he must feel.

"Let's go home shall we?" he said, allowing John to walk just ahead of him down the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

The flat was welcoming and warm as the pair walked in. John detoured to go and have a chat with Mrs Hudson, as Sherlock climbed the stairs. He was about to collapse onto the couch when he glanced across at the dummy. It had an envelope pinned to the front of it 'Sherlock' scrawled on in an elegant well formed hand. Sherlock slipped it into his pocket as he heard John coming up the stairs.

"Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson always keeps my spare medical kit,"

"I told you John…" he objected as John walked towards him looking him straight in the eye with fixed determination

"Sit down," John ordered. Sherlock only hesitated a couple of seconds before John took his arm and pushed him towards the sofa.

"Ow, ow! John!" John let go immediately, but Sherlock sat down without further pressuring.

"Show me where that knife caught you," John demanded; and reluctantly, Sherlock complied.

Sherlock watched John's face as he inspected the knife wound before cutting the sleeve off around it, throwing the shirt to the bin across the room. John periodically frowned as he cleaned away the dried blood. The cut had missed the major blood vessels but not the muscle. Eventually John was satisfied the cut was clean and sat back slightly.

"Do you want me to wrap it now or are you showering first?"

"Now, please,"

Apart from that John worked silently and Sherlock shut his eyes, relaxed; only feeling John's light fingers bandaging his arm.

Sherlock fell asleep like this and John didn't notice until he had finished his work.

"There all … oh" he quickly lowered his voice when he realised his friend was asleep.

He quietly packed away the rest of his medical kit and sat back down on the sofa. He was tired himself but didn't feel like making the stairs to his room. He looked over to Sherlock and wondered how many scars cuts and other injuries he had gathered in the last three years. John was soon asleep himself; head lolled back to rest on the back cushions, one of his arms fell from his stomach where they had been initially rested, and knocked Sherlock's knee. This abruptly woke him up.

He had never be at ease with contact, but on glancing down and realising it was John though, it didn't bother him. Looking around he saw the dummy and then across the room the bullet hole where it had passed straight through the model and into the wall by the door. Mrs Hudson was sure to give him hell for it.

"Home sweet home," he said with fondness. He was just about to lie back and go back to sleep when he saw the envelope sticking out of his jacket pocket, which now hung on the chair. He reached over for it but his arm hurt so he was forced to stand slightly to reach it with his other hand before sitting back down, carefully so as not to wake John.

Inspecting the letter proved useless, the handwriting was familiar but Sherlock couldn't identify a certain individual, the paper was standard 'Smiths variety, and pen a black inked fountain pen. Opening the envelope a single sheet of paper was contained.

John stirred and looked up at Sherlock. His friend looked troubled, staring at a letter in his hands.

"What's that?" he mumbled, half through sleep. Sherlock glanced down at him, surprised.

"It's nothing important," he said, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. "I was just about to go to bed. Will you be alright?" he asked, standing slowly.

John looked away to the floor. He had felt fine but a spark of deep rooted vulnerability and fear as in the back of his mind as soon as Sherlock had asked that question. It had felt much longer than just this morning that he had woken up shaking and terrified and his mind was only too ready to drag him back there given the chance

Hurriedly he replied, "Yes, yes I'll be fine," It obviously didn't convince Sherlock because he stood looking at him for a moment more before walking to his room in silence.

John sat on the sofa for a good half hour more, head in his hands reassuring himself. He knew he was feeling guilty about Mary as well. In the past two days he had barely even thought of her. She was used to him falling off the map during his black periods even if they had been becoming less frequent of late. Yet she had always been there to help him get, an albeit flimsy, grip of reality. To listen when he was angry or comfort when Mrs Hudson called her at two in the morning that he hadn't come home. She's find him at Sherlock's Headstone, still as a statue, poised as a soldier. Staring. Blank.

But despite all of that she had come to love him, and John now worried what this new development of the return of Holmes would do to their fragile relationship. Taking out his phone he text Mary a short simple message.

_I'm sorry about the past couple of you like to meet tomorrow for lunch or dinner? Love, John xxx_

It was typical text she was used to receiving from him and he sighed, wishing to be a better someone for anyone. He was no longer a soldier, he felt like he was continuously dragging Mary down, Harry had long since gone off the rails and he couldn't do a thing to help, and certainly Sherlock Holmes didn't need him.

Looking at he clock he realised it was probably too late for her to reply so dropping his phone on the table next to him he went to change for bed.

Sherlock lay perfectly still. He had given up trying to sleep; that wasn't to say he didn't need the sleep, he just couldn't quiet his mind as he usually did. He had seen the fear behind John's eyes when he had reminded him of the nightmares. He had caused those nightmares in the first place.

He heard John go to bed with heavy feet on the old floorboards he could trace John's movements up the stairs, placing his clothes on the chair in the corner of the room, changing into his nightclothes, turning off the light and getting into bed. From then Sherlock counted the minutes hoping to sleep. He was almost to 40 minutes when he started to hear muffled cries from the room above. John's nightmares; they scared him, a great irrational fear that shook his core. He slipped out of his own bed and made his way to the foot of the stairs to John's room. He looked up at the staircase which felt a lot taller than he knew it to be. Each step was filled with trepidation.

When he reached John's door he inched it open slowly. John was tangled in the sheets, muffled cries into his pillow and thrashing intermittently. Sherlock rushed to the bed and placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"Oh John, please don't do this, please," Sherlock begged at no more than a whisper. At the sound of his voice John's thrashing became subdued and he relaxed and rolled over; straight on to Sherlock's hand. Sherlock let out a sigh at John now sleeping soundly. There was no way he was leaving John if he was likely to have another nightmare so he lay down on top of the covers next to John, hand still on his shoulder. Now he had no problem falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When John woke he found that Sherlock had gone out early just as he always used to; from the numerous papers John assumed that Mycroft had given him a case. Still, no doubt Sherlock would return in a few hours, and depending on his success, either jumping off the furniture form the ego boost, or bored. John didn't know which he preferred. Both were infuriating moods to witness, but either way his blog would have a new entry in the following days.

John was sat in his armchair, with a cup of tea and the newspaper, when he heard the doorbell. Single ring; client, he assumed. He heard as Mrs Hudson opened her door to go to answer it. Despite not being able to hear the conversation, John believed his suspicions confirmed when the creaks of two pairs of footsteps ascended the stairs to the flat. As they approached, John stood and rounded the corner to meet them.

"I'm afraid Sherlock is out," he said as the pair reached the landing. They were two police officers, both with solemn expressions. John doubted Lestrade would have sent them rather than come personally to request help.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"Are you Dr John Watson?"

"Yes," he replied, unsure and wary of where this was headed.

"Then it is you sir whom we wish to speak to," John stepped back at this and waved them in, gathering Sherlock's papers to the coffee table.

"What's happened," he asked slowly as he turned to clear the remaining papers on the table.

"You may prefer to sit down," John sat, eyes fixed on them, waiting; waiting for the news to hit him that something had happened to Sherlock.

"I regret to inform you that" the officer started. The blood was pumping in John's ears as he struggled to remain calm; God, Sherlock had only just come back to him, he couldn't lose… "Your sister, Harriet Watson, was involved in a fatal accident early this morning,"

John went cold. All the scenarios he had imagined had involved Sherlock; while the relief of those scenarios paled in comparison to the shock of the information he was receiving.

"Was anyone else involved?" he asked, tentatively.

"No, no-one else was around at the time of the accident. She was on her own in the car and appears to have lost control of the vehicle and collided with a stationary vehicle and then a wall at approximately 2:15am. She died on impact."

"Then I'm thankful for that," he paused. "Was she under the influence?" the officers exchanged a look before answering.

"Preliminary examinations suggest she was several times over the limit,"

"I see, thank you."

After giving John the rest of the relevant information, encouraging him to make another cup of tea to calm his nerves, and checking he would be ok on his own, the officers left.

John sat in silence as his tea went cold and his mind drifted; for all the foolish things Harry did, he'd never believed she'd ever really come to harm because of it. He remembered when they were younger, reluctantly driving to pick her up from wherever she'd ended up every other night. Usually the roughest parts of town and out of money; lost on drink, drugs or gambling; or mugged as she usually told John.

When John had gone off to join the army he'd relied on Clara keeping her on track, she was good for his sister. John was thinking about contacting Clara when the sound from his phone sat on the mantelpiece snapped him from his memories: it was Mary.

_I'd love to have dinner. Sarah told me you'd had some good news. Can't wait to hear it. I'll see you at 7, ok? Love Mary xxx_

Guilt dawned on him that he still hadn't told her about Sherlock's return, or Sherlock about Mary. 'And now Harry is gone instead' he thought.

Mary had only met Harry once: John had received a txt from Clara in the middle of a date. Mary had been used to him checking his phone out of habit, subconsciously still not accepting Sherlock's death she told him. He knew that, or he thought he did. Clara had told him that Harry had turned up on her doorstep, drunk and shouting. She was worried about her more than scared. As it happened they weren't very far away so Mary volunteered to walk with john and catch a taxi from there.

Things had turned out to be worse than expected: Harry passed out on the steps, and within the evening she was at St Barts having her stomach pumped and over the next months, extensive counselling and rehabilitation.

Eight months ago she'd claimed to be sober; cured. It had all worked, apparently John knew his sister better than that.

John had been consumed by another string of memories when Sherlock burst in.

"I'm sure Mycroft does this for his amusement rather than national security issues. You'll love this one for your blog, Idiots named themselves after fictional villains," He looked to John when he heard no reply. "John?"

John just looked at him for a moment: The scientist; the philosopher; the man who was bored by normal things like eating and sleeping. And what was more boring than a predictable death, and even John could have predicted this.

"My sister died this morning," John said, eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

"Oh,"

"Oh?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quickly,

"No you're not, you never knew her," John replied. Sherlock shut his mouth and looked to the ground frowning. John turned away from him and threw his hands in the air.

"I never even got on with her, she brought this on herself," he ranted, like releasing a pressure valve. A choke caught in his throat "I couldn't help her." He whispered. His shoulders dropped in defeat but the tears didn't come, the grief not fully sunken in yet. For now it as just anger and hurt, something that felt so familiar yet devastating.

A cold hand gently rested on his shoulder.

"She was your family,"

"She never needed me,"

"You were her only brother," Sherlock said uncomfortably, and John only shook his head.

"Didn't matter to her,"

He didn't know how to comfort someone as important to him as John was. Sherlock had only just begun thinking of how to fix the effects of his faked death that had destroyed John, Harry's death had caused a great deal of inconvenience to his plans.

Sherlock ran his hand down John's arm before dropping his hand back down.

"Tell me about her," he asked. John remained silent, breathing slowly, controlled. Sherlock didn't know what to do and this troubled him.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No!" John said, louder than expected and their eyes met in the mirror, "I just …" John didn't or couldn't finish that sentence and Sherlock watched him as he straightened like a soldier, eyes shut. He breathed out long and slow before walking to the kitchen.

"Have you eaten anything recently?"

"John?" Sherlock followed John into the kitchen and watched as he appeared to act normally. Typical soldier trained behaviour, locking it all away. Sherlock used much the same techniques 'Caring was not an advantage' Mycroft had taught him from a young age. Sherlock therefore acted without attachment to the information he accumulated; John acted with emotion and with his heart; His most admirable quality to Sherlock.

"I can make you some toast, you never exactly eat like a normal person but you look like you've lost weight," Sherlock watched him go to the cupboards taking out the loaf, but if this was how John was going to distract himself Sherlock would play along if it would help John

"Yes. Thank you John," John turned and gave him a small smile that made Sherlock feel very pleased with his decision. John was clearly grateful Sherlock hadn't pursued to make him talk extensively about his sister.

The day past slowly but Sherlock didn't comment on his own boredom; he didn't want to trouble John, who had continued to distract himself by watching reruns of mundane telly. Sherlock text Lestrade for more cases but Lestrade wasn't replying. He knew he should probably speak to Mycroft; he would be able to get the visas he needed to solve one of his outstanding problems.

For John the whole day was a blur. Crap telly distracted him until the 6 o'clock news came on and he realised Mary would be arriving soon. He looked over to Sherlock who had been surprisingly quiet all day. He was sat now at his laptop and was frowning at something on the screen.

"Something wrong?" he asked, getting up, stretching and walking over to Sherlock.

"What? Oh, no." he said, his usual fast pace, closing the indo and John approached. "Want to go out tonight?" he asked.

"Actually, I'm already going out,"

"Mary?"

"Yes. Wait, who told…?"

"Lestrade mentioned her," Sherlock said in a very matter of fact manner and John didn't know quite how to respond.

"What did he…?"

"I understand you are engaged."

"Well that's…"

"So you're not?" Sherlock said, looking John straight in the eye and John felt very uncomfortable under such a gaze.

"She, she helped me through some very… difficult times," He said slowly. " Then when her mother and sister came to stay with her for a few days at Christmas, and her mother is very traditional, Mary told her that we were engaged to placate her; only her sister was also in the room and decided to spread the news. Donovan and Lestrade and all of them found out fairly quickly. Whilst Mary and I agreed that actually, it is something that we would like; just not right now." John sighed. "Not even set a date,"

Sherlock looked up at John who was stood next to him. John had a faint smile on his face and Sherlock could tell that Mary really must have been good for him. He felt pleased that John could find solace without him.

"Then you still deserve my most wholesome congratulations, my dear friend," He said standing and hugging John. It took a moment before John hugged back. For one man it was an apology, and the other forgiveness; both also assuming life could now return to what they both yearned for: the closeness, the cases, the mutual understanding.

Sherlock broke the hug and stepped back,

"Now you'd better go and change if she is to be arriving soon,"

"Yes, thank you," John said before ascending the stairs to his room to shower and change.

Sherlock remained in the living room. Something was troubling him, though he couldn't place where the problem lay. After some time he walked over to the window only to see a taxi pull up and a woman step out and head for 221

"So this is Mary?" he said smirking. Hearing that John was still changing, Sherlock went to meet her.

"Oh I'm sorry, I'm not late am I? … oh?" She said as Sherlock opened the door; she startled when she saw him.

"Good evening Mary, I'm Sherlock Holmes, Please do come in." He said, opening the door further to welcome her inside. "John will be just a minute; he's still getting ready,"

It was then that she regained her voice, "You were dead." She stated in a very cold tone, Sherlock assumed anger or concern for John

"No." He replied. "I faked my death,"

"And why have you come back now?" Straight to the point, maybe Sherlock could deal with her presence.

"Because now I can." He said firmly before ascending the stairs to the flat leaving her open mouthed by the door. She followed him momentarily, but again lost he voice when she again shared a room with him.

Sherlock glanced at her and deductions flew to his mind : mid-thirties, dyed brown hair used to be red, regular trips to beauty salons; prides herself on appearance, which must be difficult since she works with young children from the underlying shrillness in her voice; works with children so generally the patient disposition; average in almost every way. Boring, yet John must see something in her to attract him to her company.

Sherlock knew John would want him to try and be civil with her so attempted to start conversation.

"So you work with children, that must be tedious." He began when he heard John coming down the stairs. Apparently, so did Mary as she immediately ignored Sherlock in favour of meeting John in the hallway at the foot of the stairs.

"Mary! It's so good to see you," Sherlock heard John say as he fetched both his and John's coats from their hooks in the kitchen. When he reached the pair Mary was whispering something in John's ear. John chuckled. "Yes, he does that,"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "Your coat," he said holding it out for him,

"Oh, thank you," he said, turning in surprise to the taller man stood behind them.

"I know Angelo always used to hold a table for me, but I suggest we still leave promptly,"

"Sherlock…" John began to object

"After all, the sooner we leave the sooner I can begin getting to know Mary," Sherlock continued, innocently smiling at Mary who fidgeted where she stood.

"Do you mind if I just take a moment to freshen up?" she asked, looking to John who nodded,

"Yes, of course,"

"What do you think you're doing?" John snapped almost as soon as he heard the bathroom door close.

"I'm trying to be supportive of your new relationship John," He said, refraining from using his pleading puppy dog eyes, which seemed worked on everyone except John.

John sighed, "Okay, but can you promise me you'll try and behave?"

"Of course John," He said, smiling, "Just be my usual charming self,"

"Do you even hear what I'm saying?" John said, exasperated. At this point Sherlock heard the lock of the bathroom door unlock.

"Every Word." Sherlock said with a wink, before pulling his coat closed, turning up his collar and starting down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're still disappointed with me," Sherlock voiced after watching John sit down with breakfast. His comment was met with a glare.

"You're being completely unreasonable." Sherlock stated, ignoring the look John continued to give him.

"Unreasonable?" John said, looking now down at his plate and tea. Sherlock could tell it wasn't something he was supposed to elaborate on; and then continued regardless.

"She was dull, boring, obvious and predictable," he said ticking them off with each finer as he said them, "You know how tedious people like that are." He mirrored John's level stare, "She wasn't your type."

"And what the hell do you know about my type, "John shouted, finally reaching the limits of his patience as the comment ignited his annoyance.

"I know everything about you John," He drawled, as if such information was obvious. John matched the cold tone with his reply.

"You delete irrelevant data when you don't need it for case, and you've been gone for three years! How can you possibly still know anything about me?"

Realising he may have gone too far but still unwilling to back down John stormed out of the room and in his annoyance as he heavily climbed the stairs he didn't hear Sherlock's response.

Sherlock remained at the table until he reached the conclusion the, much as Sherlock disliked the idea, John might require some space; temporarily of course. This notion prevented his from bursting into John room to either declare his boredom or demand he text Lestrade for more cases to occupy him; Lestrade still appeared to be ignoring _his_ texts.

Sherlock moved over to where his laptop sat on the table and attempted to boot it up. Just as he'd logged in to check his emails and blog, the low battery message flashed up and the whole thing went into sleep mode. He groaned and frowned at the screen before glancing to the socket where he usually had his laptop plugged in. John's was plugged there. Memory recalled he had been the one to plug it in place of his own, when he had confiscated it the previous morning for research purposes.

About half an hour later John walked past the door, grabbed his coat and hurried off down the stairs, ignoring Sherlock's calls of "John? John! Where are you going?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet to see him hailing a cab on the street outside. He wanted to follow him but being in his dressing gown he recognised it probably wouldn't be the most appropriate for tracking down the stubborn doctor.

Sherlock's first thought was that he had gone to the surgery, in which case it would have been simple to placate John as he would be unwilling to argue in front of a patient or colleague. However, after waiting half an hour Sherlock knew it took John to arrive at the surgery, settle himself down and to begin seeing patients. Sherlock rang the receptionist's phone to check. He was annoyed to find that John had failed o inform him that he wasn't working for the next two weeks, unless anyone phoned in sick and Sherlock promptly hung up on the confused receptionist.

Sherlock found he was reduced to texting John

_Have you gone for milk? –SH_

There as no reply so after five minutes he tried again.

John sat at Mary's sipping his tea having finally been forgiven for Sherlock's behaviour. Mary read through the building number of texts as they came up as alerts on John's phone. "This is ridiculous! And why is the first thing he thinks you could be doing is going for milk?"

"It won't be the first thing, he'll have narrowed down hundreds of possibilities," John said, attempting to defend his friend. Mary wasn't convinced.

"And that there's a spare, behind the thumbs, in the fridge. Does he mean human thumbs?"

John remained silent, wondering where he had managed to acquired thumbs so soon.

"Then he jumps from that Mrs Hudson is doing, to lack of cases, to where his stash is; Stash of what, may I ask?"

"Has he said where it is, or just said he's going to tell me?" John asked, diverting the question.

"I'll tell you where my stash is- SH, right after he's told you to stop sulking because it doesn't become you,"

"He means we can't both sulk, it's an empty plea. If I want to find and dispose of his stash, I'll have to find it myself,"

"And now he's threatening to ask Mycroft where you are. That's his brother right,"

"Yeah, brother, enemy, British government etc. He wouldn't call him; he just thinks I'll get the message that he could if I don't come home soon,"

"Really John, you lived with him like this, all that time?"

"It was a lifestyle, I guess. Never boring." John smiled slightly reminiscing.

Mary paused surveying the man sat before her, suddenly seeing that he was never as broken as she believed; just a little lost without his friend as his anchor. It was sad really, and endearing. She struggled to bring up such a topic of co-dependency; she knew that John wouldn't take it well; rather a knock to his already fragile pride.

"John. Perhaps we need to take a bit of a break," she said slowly.

"What?"

"I'll not leave your side if you need me, but you have _got _to resolve these issues with Sherlock. He's only just come back and its madness, I just don't feel I can fit in with that without damaging what you and he have,"

"He's the one who would damage anything! He … "

"He is a major part of who you are. Just a couple of weeks, then everything, I'm sure, will sort itself out without so much tension in the room," John sunk his head and Mary felt sure she wouldn't lose him over this. "You're a good man John, but right now you need to forgive Sherlock. I don't think you will be yourself again until you've accepted that,"

John sat staring at his cup for what seemed to Mary like hours but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Okay, if you think it'll work," John finally replied and Mary gave a sigh of relief.

"I'll still be here if you need me, don't hesitate,"

"Yes, thank you." They both smiled. "Mary?"

"Yes?"

"Would you help me sort out Harry's funeral, I don't think I can do it on my own."

"Of course John, would you like to get it out of the way this afternoon?"

Sherlock grew progressively more agitated and manic. He knew he couldn't go after John without annoying him further; but when after three hours john still hadn't replied, he'd already begun throwing papers and files into the air in temper and frustration.

There was a packet of cannabis in his jacket from when he'd been away and eventually, for the need of calm and reassurance, he lay down on the couch and began to smoke it.

He lost track of time as the drug took effect, it was irrelevant. John was relevant; he was the one causing this. He should be with Sherlock, they were together, a team, partners.

"No, we're not. You left, you didn't need me," Sherlock didn't realise talking out loud, nor that John had returned, and as stood leaning against the doorway with a look of exhaustion and fondness. Relief washed over Sherlock, followed closely by apprehension.

"You _do _want me to leave don't you?"

"No."

"But you don't want me to be me if I stay," Sherlock said looking down and away from John.

"I want you…arrrh" John said quickly, lost for word. He walked over to Sherlock's side, eyes downcast, while Sherlock lay subdued by the drug in his system, clearly thinking to the most transparent solution.

"I could leave until you decide," Sherlock said, making to sit up.

"No!" John said, raising him voice and his hand shot out to Sherlock's shoulder, holding him down. "I know I don't want you to go. I don't think I'd manage losing you a second time. I shouldn't have ignored you all day, I was confused and hurt."

He paused, thinking of how he could explain feelings in a way Sherlock would understand. "Mary has supported me for a long time, and you spent the whole evening deducing her to be boring, whilst I'm sat opposite the most interesting man I've ever known," John became embarrassed with his final statement and made to move away. Sherlock caught his wrist and pulled him back.

"I only left to protect you; I never wanted to go," He said; crystal blue eyes boring into John. Sherlock loosened his grip but didn't let go. He expected John to pull away, but instead the doctor entwined his fingers with the detective's and sank don to sit on the floor, his back leaning on the sofa.

John was staring at their hands, gently rubbing circles with his thumb; Sherlock was watching John.

"Tell me what you're thinking Sherlock; I know you can probably deduce everything about me,"

"I used to think I could," Sherlock responded, slowly.

A small smile graced John's face as he leant his head back until it rested on Sherlock's side, slightly pleased that he could outwit Sherlock by just being himself.

"Where were you today?" Sherlock asked, itching to know what had kept John from him for so long.

"Guess,"

"I don't guess."

"Then tell me," John said, wistful smile as he waited for Sherlock to respond.

"Mary's to apologise, though that wouldn't have taken all day,"

"Yes…" John said, attempting to encourage Sherlock to carry on.

"Won't _you _tell me?" Sherlock urged, rolling on to his side, cupping John's head so as not to jar his neck.

"I had to start Harry's funeral preparations. Mary went with me," John leant into the contact of Sherlock's hand behind his head and felt his body tense a moment when John had mentioned spending time with Mary.

"It's difficult for her too," he told Sherlock

"The funeral?" Sherlock asked, not following.

"No, you," John watched as Sherlock's calm was replaced with a frown, "or rather me and you," That didn't seem to affect the expression and John began to stumble over his words, "She says that, that it feels like my first priority has just, walked in I guess, and pushed her out of a fire escape," At this Sherlock chuckled and then both men fell into a comfortable silence, and eventually, sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Lestrade offered Sherlock a case, at John's request, and together the three of them caught a cab to the crime scene.

The warehouse the arrived at was apparently the base of the late antique dealer's business, though looking around, John found more similarities with their flat after one of Sherlock's tantrums.

Moving his gaze over to where the detective stood , John was surprised to find him standing at the door to a small office, staring back at him; waiting for him to join him, instead of rushing head first into his first case back in his home playground.

John hurried over, expecting a request for a medical eye of the body, or to get specific details from Lestrade. However, as John reached him Sherlock continued into the room and didn't look back up to his companion until his was hovering over the body which was sprawled across the small desk in the corner opposite the door.

"If Mycroft rings you, ignore it,"

"Sorry, what?"

"You heard me," He said, turning back to the body just as Lestrade walked into the room and stood next to John.

"Has he got anything yet?" He asked John in a hushed tone.

"Shut up while I think!" Sherlock snapped in reply, earning himself glares from both men which he promptly ignored and retuned to the body which was far more interesting.

John gave Greg an apologetic smile which he waved off before exiting the room again. John was a little agitated from the number of officers casing looks into the office at his friend each time they passed by.

Lestrade and John had cleared Sherlock's name, and John suspected Mycroft called in several favours too, but John suspected not all of these faces peering in the door was quite as convinced of the verdict.

"Where's the knife?" Sherlock asked, abruptly bringing John from his thoughts.

"Lestrade said he as knocked over the head by a heavy blunt instrument."

"He was, but he attacked first, he had a knife; a short type of dagger, ornate handle, probably jewelled if he had taken it from his collections. The scratches on the desk suggest it had a smooth rather than a jagged or broken blade. Point is he knew who was coming, he wasn't hiding from an attack, or been backed into the office. That's why he is this side of the desk and nothing else in the room is disturbed. "

It took a few seconds for John as all of this sunk in and the picture of the crime began to fall into place. "I'll get Lestrade, save you repeating yourself," John said, and Sherlock nodded.

"I've missed this," Lestrade said as he re entered the office, "Okay then, what have you got?"

"The victim initiated the attack; provoked it, invited his attacker with the intention of attacking first. Someone he was familiar with but disliked. Could be a customer but at the late hour I'd say someone closer, like family, or... daughter's partner." Lestrade looked a little lost.

"So what, he was killed by accident,"

"His death was unintentional, yes, but the killer believed he had the possible motive to become a suspect of murder, even if the actual death was accidental. "

"So who?"

"The daughter's boyfriend. All these pictures about his office, no wife in the picture, then there's the postcard from he recent travels abroad, she's written from her and Steven, yet barely mentions the term "we" throughout her account. The father here probably disapproved of him so she avoided the subject."

"Sherlock, I need proof," Lestrade said

"The search the boyfriend's apartment, you'll find the ornate knife he intends to sell, he can't keep it, but he's not from a wealthy background and ill think he can get something for is regardless. There will be other pieces he has stolen from her home and here also no doubt."

"A thief isn't a murderer,"

"I told you, he as invited here. Check the phone records, there's your proof. If the phone calls from here don't fit, then just charge him for theft until I find the rest of your proof,"

As Sherlock and John waited John found that he had two missed calls from Mycroft. John looked up at Sherlock who had glanced over at the phone also, a poorly concealed smirk was present until he realised John was looking, and then he looked away, grumbling about police inadequacy.

The next time his phone rang out John took it out answer it, yet found it snatched out of his hand by Sherlock who rejected the call.

"Why are you so adamant to avoid contact with your brother?" John said, attempting to pry the phone out of the detective's hand. Sherlock ignored him and walked back to Lestrade to ask if his inept officers had the information he needed.

Typically, Sherlock had assumed right. The father had phoned the girl's apartment, asked to speak to Steven and her friend had answered telling him they were both out. When the couple returned the message had been relayed to the boyfriend when the girl had left the room and he shortly left the flat claiming he was going to head home for the night. The last phone call received on the father's phone as from a public telephone box at the end of the street the girl's lived on, and could be seen from CCTV footage to be the boyfriend. He then caught a cab.

Lestrade then had to tell them that that was all they could find out immediately, and he promised to keep the boys filled in.

Still with John's phone in hand Sherlock made to exit the building. John thanked Lestrade, apologised again before saying goodbye. He joined Sherlock at the door and began to make their ay across the car park and on to the main street.

Behind them a long black car pulled up and John turned and rolled his eyes as Mycroft stepped out.

"Sherlock Holmes. Answer your phone!"

John couldn't help but snigger as the brother's faced off, several people beginning to stare from cafe windows and such. Sherlock's expression mad him look like a petulant five year old in a supermarket.

Mycroft took several strides towards him before appearing to reconsider and turning to face john, expression shifting to a more pleasant façade.

"John, it is good to se you again, looking better it seems." John simply nodded.

"I was almost hoping my brother's manners may have improved in his absence but clearly it appears not,"

"As was I brother dear," Sherlock said sneering

."Get in the car." Mycroft said sternly as he walked back towards the open door himself. John didn't know whether the instruction was simply for Sherlock or the both of them, but neither moved.

"I will not deal with all of your messes Sherlock, Now get in the car!"

Before he realised it Jon was being ushered towards the car by none other than Sherlock himself, a hand on each of John's shoulders, pushing him towards the open door which Mycroft had already stepped into. John slid over the backwards facing seat to allow Sherlock to follow him in. John half expected Sherlock to use John as a distraction and disappear, leaving John with the elder Holmes who seemed in a very troubling mood.

Sherlock did get into the car, reluctantly; leaving the door wide open so that Mycroft was obliged to shut it himself.

"I'm sure this shall be one of many, though if this is only the beginning I should have wished you had never come back,"

"What is your point Mycroft?" Sherlock said, his eyes glued to the window, refusing to look at his brother.

"You know exactly what! The little souvenir you sent home!"

"I don't know what…"

"The boy Sherlock! The one who calls himself Hamish Holmes and comes to my doorstep…"

"Where else was I to send him, I didn't know if I would ever be coming home!"

"That is beside the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"He is not _my _responsibility."

"Neither is he mine, but he helped me enormously and he need to escape his previous situation,"

"The boy is twelve years old and you roped him into your…"

"That's enough Mycroft, what are you intending to do with the boy,"

Mycroft took a deep breath before continuing.

"He's clearly seen and being involved with very sensitive government material, no child can control their tongue so he shall be sent into care, top level security around him constantly, he may end up working for the British secret service if he proves to have valuable assets,"

"No,"

"What do you mean no? You've made it quite clear the boy is no concern of yours,"

"I said he was no my responsibility, no that I am not concerned for a situation I have put him in, especially when as he appears to be in your control now,"

"So you care for the boy?" Sherlock didn't reply, just matched his brother with a level stare. "Sherlock you still possess the attitude of a child yourself, you could never look after the boy,"

"There are plenty of people ho are extremely fond of highlighting my mistakes, even revel in them. I cannot go far wrong. Certainly less so than yourself,"

"Your flat mate is sat next to you Sherlock. Have you considered his opinion, or are you going to kick him out in place of this child?"

John looked up at that comment and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes' terrified blue eyes. John had started to slouch, zoning out of the argument where he knew the outcome; and he knew Mycroft knew the outcome. Mycroft was testing the waters of their renewed relationship, pushing it's limits and getting back at his brother. The childish feud all over again.

Sherlock now looked as if he had realised a terrible mistake. John knew this was not the conversation to have with Mycroft sat across from them both analysing their every phrase and gesture. So he turned away from Sherlock's troubled gaze to the elder Holmes who appeared to be quite pleased with himself.

"If you would be so kind as to drop us at 221B Mycroft, We'd be very grateful," He said with his sweetest smile. Mycroft's smirk fell from his face.

"My pleasure," He said.

It was a long quiet drive home.


	7. Chapter 7

John waited until h saw the car pull away from the curb side before turning to Sherlock who was stood by the doorway. Sherlock still hadn't removed his coat which made him look as if he was going to bolt at a moment's notice.

"You know Mycroft has this whole flat wired, if you're going to say anything here you might as well have just said it in the car," Sherlock said before John had thought of the words to approach the subject. John could tell the detective was going to try and avoid this conversation; but he knew best to play along to Sherlock's current line of thought.

"Okay. Shall we go for a walk then?" He said, grabbing his coat and keys from the hook, before Sherlock could object and pushing him back towards the door.

"You weren't going to tell me about this boy were you?" John said as they neared the end of Baker Street. Neither knew where they were going but Sherlock appeared to be determined to walked a swiftly as he ever did.

"I didn't believe it would ever be relevant,"

"You sent the boy to Mycroft? How could you not think it would ever come back to you?"

"I didn't know if I would be coming back. The boy was in danger from helping me; I couldn't just leave him,"

"And you put the boy in danger-"

"And sent him to safety with Mycroft,"

"How long ago?"

""What?" Sherlock said looking back at John.

"How long will Mycroft have been taking care of him?"

"Not long," Sherlock said quickly, looking away down the street.

"Sherlock?"

"A few months," He said, noncommittally. John sighed and walked past him, knowing Sherlock would follow.

"Why did he turn up at Mycroft's saying his name was Hamish Holmes?" John asked after a while.

"He said he didn't have a name when he first started helping me. He was a very skilled linguist; he could translate more languages faster than I could. I needed…" Sherlock paused, looking at John.

"An assistant. Yes, you said as much that first day," John said, "But Hamish?"

"Mycroft would know he was from me," Sherlock said, turning into a small park to avoid a large group of mothers and strollers heading their way.

John herded Sherlock over to a park bench.

"Sit." He ordered, Sherlock scowled but obeyed without hesitation. John sat on the other end of the bench once he saw Sherlock wasn't going to jump up and wander off.

"Sherlock, I know you." John said firmly as Sherlock scanned the park, before turning to John and looking him in the eye. The look may have unnerved many people but John wouldn't expect anything else from this impossible man. "You can't just deny responsibility for this child because you didn't know whether you would come back to help him. YOU" He said pointing at him, "Wouldn't do that. You think through every possible scenario in milliseconds." He paused. "Now how did the scenario play out in your head, for if you returned?"

"I don't know John,"

"Don't you dare lie to me Sherlock!" John shouted out and the mothers over by the playground turned to tut at the outburst. John ran a hand through his hair and took a few deep breaths, calming his voice. "I am the only one who will hear you out; as I always have. What were your intentions for this boy?" He said quietly, controlled.

Sherlock shifted, looking to the floor; it was only ever John who could make him feel uncomfortable about speaking his mind. John listened, John acknowledged him as more than a machine or a tool; he'd found his heart in John Watson. Finally just as he thought John was going to get up and leave he spoke.

"I thought he could live with us,"

"I know you did." John said, leaning back on the bench, amused smile on his face as he watched the genius struggle with his thoughts. It was refreshing to see him like that. "He'll not be an experiment Sherlock, you won't put him in danger; and I'll not be a lone parent," Sherlock's head snapped up to meet John's eyes.

"But now you're engaged, I never factored in…"

"We never set a date,"

"But you'll still move out to start your own family; with Mary."

"The child will need a family, something stable; Mary can choose to be a part of that or not,"

Sherlock's eyes were wide; scared; amazed.

"We could do this Sherlock. There's the smaller spare room next to mine. We can move your chemistry set to the basement flat," John said with a chuckle. "I'm not having a child near your thumbs and eyes and severed heads."

"But Johhhn," Sherlock whined looking at his companion pleadingly.

"No. We'll get you another fridge and microwave; fix the damp and get it lit properly; Mycroft can get it done since he seems so insistent on you having this child. We'll give Mrs Hudson more rent for the extra room of course" John listed off all the thinks they'd have to do but Sherlock wasn't listening, just watching John count the things off on his fingers. It was only when John looked up at him that he refocused on what he was being told "…but you want to look after this boy, so we're going to do this properly," John said firmly and Sherlock couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his face.

"Thank you," He said and the smile was returned.

"My god, what have I let myself in for," John said light-heartedly.

"Can we go home? Sherlock asked as a chill swept past them both and John nodded his agreement and stood. They were just about to take the first steps away when both men heard a shout.

"Gladstone! Gladstone, come back!"

John barely had time to register what was going on when suddenly his friend was knocked to the floor when a large English bulldog barrelled into his legs from behind. John quickly grabbed the heavy dog by the collar and pulled it off his friend. The dog merely stood where John held him, tongue hanging ridiculously out of one side of his mouth.

John could not control his laughter from the indignant look on his friend's face. Sherlock made to stand up but wobbled and fell down once again earning a whoop of laughter from John, but also a hand offered to help him to his feet.

Sherlock glared at the dog but his gaze softened when his fixed his eyes on something behind John. John turned to find a small dark haired boy stood a couple of metres from them, head bowed, wiping tears from his eyes and with ripped holes in his trousers from grazes to his knees.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes! I didn't mean to let him go. He must have seen you and gotten excited," The boy sniffed and stuttered. "I, I should go.." The boy made to take the dog's collar from John but Sherlock stepped in between them, bending down to the boy's level.

"Yes, we're all going," Sherlock then lifted the boy up to his shoulders, John's eyes widened "We're going home," The boy looked up in surprise, runny nose and scrapes forgotten.

"Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He squealed.

"Thank you not me," Sherlock said looking to John, "John, this is Hamish" The boy was clearly shy by the way he clung so tightly to Sherlock

John was startled for a moment before finding his manners and the three of them and the dog began walking home.

John tried to be annoyed; he even tried to be frustrated and angry. However, taking one look at the joyful childish grins on both Sherlock's and the boy's faces as the scrawny looking boy played with Sherlock's hair and ears was far too distracting.

"Mrs Hudson is going to murder you for the dog," John said as he met Sherlock's eyes which were full of happiness as they walked. The dog, Gladstone, was happily following at the pair's feet, wagging his tail furiously, and looking longingly up at his master.

Sherlock lifted the boy back down to the floor went they reached 221B and bent to John's ear, "Can you talk to Mrs Hudson?" he asked, eyes pleading, hand still on Hamish.

"We'll talk to her once he's gone to bed," John said, hoping the old woman wouldn't have her kitchen door open and see who they were leading upstairs.

"Right, first things first," John said, clapping his hands together to warm them, "we'll clean up those scrapes, then dinner, then- Sherlock!"


	8. Chapter 8

"I am going to kill your brother," John shouted to his flatmate as he shifted a path between numerous stacks of boxes throughout the flat. John was attempting to get to his room and his medical kit, but he could barely ascend the stairs.

When he finally retrieved it, he checked the contents, and returned to Sherlock sprawled on the couch, and Hamish and the dog sat on the floor.

"Hamish could you sit up here for me so I can look at those cuts? Sherlock could you fetch me some warm water and a flannel?" John said as he entered the room.

"John, my ankle hurts,"

"Fetch me the water and I'll have a look at your ankle when I'm done," Sherlock grumbled but obeyed the request. John couldn't tell whether his limp was purely dramatic or not.

He turned to Hamish who had perched himself where Sherlock had just been lying, Gladstone sat beside him.

"Right then, lets have a look at these," John said as he began rolling Hamish's tattered trousers up past his knees; there were more cuts covered by the fabric.

"Are all of these from Gladstone pulling you over?" Hamish fidgeted and shook his head.

"I fell out of one of the trees at the house they were keeping me at. They wouldn't let me see Gladstone and kept him in a kennel outside. I could hear him barking and whining so I climbed out of my bedroom window and down the tree outside, The last branch was too far from the ground and I didn't land well on the gravel drive,"

"They still look fresh, When was this?"

"This morning."

"Okay well I'll clean them up too; they'll heal in no time." John looked around wondering where Sherlock had gotten to. "Can you just give me a moment to see where Sherlock's gotten to? You can put something on the TV if you want."

"Sure," He said, reaching for the remote.

The detective looked as if he had flopped on to the bed in his usual fashion.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked from the doorway. Sherlock groaned, face down into the pillow.

"In English please,"

"Ankle, John,"

"And where is the water?"

"In the tap, I believe; unless we've been cut off,"

"Don't be a child, you agreed. Now get back in there before that dog eats your favourite cushion,"

John fetched the water and flannel only to walk into the living room in the middle of an argument between Sherlock and the dog; Hamish was sat looking quite amused.

"Will everybody please be quiet! Hamish can you get Gladstone to drop the remote, I'd rather not have dog slobber all over it,"

"Sorry, Hamish said, poking Gladstone in his side and the dog promptly dropped the remote into Sherlock's outstretched hand. Sherlock turned on the spot and collapsed into his armchair.

A few minutes later when John had cleaned and dressed Hamish's cuts and scratches on his knees and palms he sent the boy into the kitchen to get Gladstone a bowl of water; when both boy and dog had disappeared into the kitchen John turned to Sherlock.

"You couldn't even last two minutes before acting like a complete child. I told you Sherlock I will not do this on my own."

"I'll try harder John, "Sherlock mumbled and John knelt to examine his ankle.

"Yes, you will. " John said firmly, locking him gaze with Sherlock before lifting the man's foot into his lap to look at his ankle. "Sherlock this is very swollen; did you walk home like this?" John asked as he massaged the area, checking for any lumps and pain; pressure on the joint made Sherlock wince.

"The dog did it when he tripped me,"

"Well why didn't you say something then? We could have gotten a cab. You didn't have to carry Hamish all the way home if you were in pain,"

"He was smiling John," Sherlock said as if it were the most obvious excuse that John had overlooked. John froze what he was doing and looked up at Sherlock; a mixture of surprise and awe.

"You suffered a painful twisted ankle, so you could see the boy smile?" Sherlock was silent, and reached to pick up his skull from the mantelpiece. John stood and smiled; maybe this will work out.

"Okay Sherlock, I can bandage your ankle for now and give you a painkiller but primarily it needs rest; no more running about London for a couple of days," Sherlock nodded and passed the skull from hand to hand.

Once wrapping the ankle carefully John packed away his medical kit walked over to Sherlock placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked up at him, placing his own hand over John's.

"You eating tonight?" John asked, "I don't know what we have in,"

"The ill typically get fed soup don't they," Sherlock offered.

"I'll see," John said, then making his way to the kitchen.

Opening the door he was almost bowled over as Gladstone raced out between his legs with a tea-towel flying out behind him.

"Gladstone no!" Hamish shouted, almost ploughing into John himself. Tears were streaming down him face, "I'm sorry, I was just trying to tidy up. He drinks messy so I was trying to dry up the mess and he tried to pull the towel out of my hands." Hamish stuttered, arms crossed around himself.

John pulled him close into a hug,

"Hey, it's okay. It can't be that bad, we'll get in cleaned up in no time; you just call Gladstone back in here with that towel,"

"O-Okay," Hamish said quietly.

John took a few steps into the kitchen and couldn't see anything to be worried about. He pulled a few more towels from the cupboard and handed a new, clean one to Hamish

"You want to dry up round his bowl then and I'll start dinner. You like tomato soup?"

"Yeah," Gladstone came bombing back into the kitchen, the towel now tied around his neck and couldn't reach to pull it off. John reached don and untied it, and a note dropped out. _ You'll still talk to Mrs Hudson won't you? –SH. _ John smiled and threw the towel out for wash. Gladstone returned to his bowl of water and John saw the problem. As Gladstone drank, each time he lapped the water, half of it seemed to be projected out of the bowl and on to the floor. Equally Hamish was trying to dry it all up.

"Just leave the towel there, he's bound to make more mess," John said laughing at the dog's comedic expression.

After dinner John went to see Mrs Hudson, but when he found that she had already taken her evening soother, he simply told her that they had a guest for the night and he would pop in tomorrow morning. He said goodnight and returned upstairs. Sherlock was sat at one end of the sofa, Hamish curled up with his head on Sherlock's thigh and hugging the arm Sherlock had across the young boy's chest

"Shall I put him to bed?" John asked,

"Oh, no. I'll do it. Shall I put him in my room?"

"Probably better in mine, less hazardous materials," John said, chuckling. "Plus, I probably fit better on the sofa. You're far too long to sleep well, and you need to rest that ankle." Sherlock nodded, and bent down to pick Hamish up carefully.

"I'll bring you down your pyjamas," Sherlock said as he passed John by. Gladstone followed the pair up the stairs at Sherlock's heels.

"You know, you don't have to sleep on the sofa. My bed is plenty big enough for the two of us," Sherlock said as he walked back into the living room and sat next to John who was flicking through channels.

"Its fine... We'll get Hamish's room sorted tomorrow and…"

"If you have a nightmare you might fall and hit the coffee table," Sherlock said, passing him the pyjamas as well as his toothbrush and comb.

"Don't be ridiculous,"

"We can't have three injured occupants of the flat." Sherlock continued, obviously ignoring John's objections to sharing the bed.

"How did it go with Mrs Hudson? I didn't hear her raise her voice."

"She'd already taken her soothers; she was half asleep as she was talking to me. I just told her we had a guest for the night and I'll be down again to chat in the morning,"

"She'll let him stay,"

"It's not Hamish I think she'll have a problem with,"

"I don't like the dog either,"

"Well I suppose it is a bit troublesome, we could get it trained."

"Its not troublesome, it's crafty and sneaky; it tried to gnaw on my skull!"

"Tomorrow, you are tidying up: microscope, chemicals, body parts, books… and all of these boxes Mycroft has dumped here, the boy can't need all this." John gestured to the boxes they'd shoved to the sides of the room.

"He told me Mycroft had given it to him so he would stop wanting the dog with him all the time. He won't be separated from it,"

"There are quite a few things I'd like to ask your brother about when I next see him,"

"He will be pleased with himself at the moment," Sherlock mused, taking out his phone and putting it on the table in front of them.

"Oh I can quite imagine,"

They flicked through a few shows and eventually settled on a drama series John watched without rally paying attention to. Sherlock made several comments about the accuracy of the references before John told him to be quiet and Sherlock huffed. Shifting round so that he could lie down, he stretched his legs over the arm of the seat and lay his head in John's lap staring up at John's face.

John didn't appear to care that Sherlock was using him as a pillow. Maybe because he was too tired, which was evident from the lines around his eyes; Sherlock wondered when the last time John had a good night's sleep was. He hoped it would improve now that the doctor had something to concentrate on.

It was about half an hour before he saw John begin to shut his eyes and fall asleep and another twenty after that, Sherlock carried John to bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock however, didn't sleep as easily as John. He lay awake staring at the ceiling until the early hours of the morning. It was around three am when he heard the shuffling of feet in the room above. He tracked the sound down the stairs as it headed towards their bedroom door. A light tap on the door; Sherlock ignored it. A knock like that wasn't intended to be heard. A minute later a heavier knock sounded on the door and Sherlock moved to answer it. By now his ankle had become stiff from lying in one position for so long and Sherlock had to use the bedstead and the chest of drawers to bare some of his weight as he moved across the room. Hamish had better good reason for disturbing them; if it was only to let that dog out he would surely leave the dog out there for good.

Sherlock opened the door and looked down at the small boy, now dressed in blue striped pyjamas and thoroughly more childlike in Sherlock's opinion. Hamish was stood with his head bowed and sniffling mush as he had been when John had first seen him in the park.

"I, I didn't think you'd be up,"

"You knocked on the door, is something the matter?"

"I had a nightmare," Hamish replied, arms hugging around his chest, and shuffling from foot to foot.

"It wasn't real,"

"I, I know."

"Then you know that nightmares can only affect you if you let them,"

"I was scared…" Hamish had started wiping fresh tears from his face.

"Sherlock?" John was sitting up in bed, looking at him concerned, "Is everything alright?"

"Hamish had a nightmare, I was telling him that if they aren't real then they can't affect you," John suddenly looked very hurt but he shook his head and sat up a little more.

"Bring him in here," He said and Sherlock opened the door further and gestured for Hamish to come inside. Sherlock also settled the dog with a glare and for once the dog stayed where it was. Hamish shuffled in, head still bowed, not looking at either Sherlock or John. When John held out his hand for Hamish to come closer Sherlock had to push him a little before he moved towards him. John sat him on the edge of the bed and cupped his hands.

"What Sherlock says about nightmares isn't exactly true, I get nightmares too. But when I wake up, I know I'm safe again; that I'm surrounded by people who are protecting me. And now Sherlock and I are protecting you, you've nothing to worry about," John said. As he finished Hamish threw his arms around John's neck in a hug. John looked up at Sherlock who appeared to be studying him, expression blank, calculating.

Sherlock was watching, despite the fact John had told him keeping the boy wouldn't be another one of his experiments, such interactions remained foreign to him. When he was a boy his mother had told him the lines "nightmares can't affect you,"; often coupled with Mycroft's arrogant sneer as he passed his brother's bedroom door returning from his parent's room. As he watched John rub circles on the small boy's back he felt an odd desire for comfort himself.

"Sherlock, could you let the dog in? Hamish can stay here until morning," John said after a few minutes of the Detective staring at him before puling Hamish away a little to look him in the eye also, "If you'd like? No more nightmares." Hamish nodded and scrambled under the covers.

Sherlock grumbled as Gladstone trotted into the room,

"Fine, but I'm not having that dog on my bed,"

"Come on Sherlock, you need your rest too," John said beckoning Sherlock back to bed. Sherlock stumbled twice as he put weight on his injured ankle, each time glaring at the dog lying upside down, asleep on the floor. When he reached the bed and slid under the covers he found he had a lot less room that he expected and huffed rather loudly.

"You'll be more comfortable if you lay on your side," John suggested, reaching an arm over Hamish and touching Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock rolled on to his side facing both John and behind Hamish who also lay facing John. The feeling of lying next to both Hamish and John was the exact comfort Sherlock appeared to be longing for. He rested his arm across Hamish and his hand on John's arm. Sherlock was disheartened when John shifted again, but it was only to bring his hand up to Sherlock's. Finally at peace, Sherlock's mind began to quieten and allow for him to sleep.

**A short one I know but it seemed like such a lovely little image and I didn't know where else I could squeeze it in for the following chapters. I may be away from my computer for the next week but should have updates after that. Reviews always make me smile too :) **


	10. Chapter 10

John was sat in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, drinking tea, and trying his real best to convince her he hadn't lost his mind.

"Sherlock can't even manage himself! How on earth do you intend to support both of them? The poor boy would grow up to be scared for his life!"

"He won't, Sherlock has promised to make an effort and Mycroft will support the boy financially, "

"And that dog! As if Sherlock didn't make enough mess, I thought there as an elephant coming down the stairs this morning. He looked so scruffy and troublesome. How do you expect me to accept a thing like that in my house?"

"We'll have Gladstone checked out by a vet as soon as possible, he's playful not troublesome I assure you,"

"Even the poor boy looks like a ruffian,"

"He had travelled a very long way, but he enjoys the outside like any young boy should. He's extremely clever too. I'm sure Sherlock admires him in his own strange way too,"

"We'll that's something I certainly don't see enough," She sighed and placed her empty cut in the washing up bowl, "But it is beside the point, where is he to sleep?"

"He took my bed last night, and there is the spare room; the basement flat."

"But the damp and the cold down there, it's not a place for a growing boy. It would be more like a prison!"

"I was thinking of moving Sherlock's experiments down there, we could fix it up for you. We'd give you the extra rent,"

"I wouldn't expect you to dear. You boys are as close as family now, I wouldn't dream of charging you more,"

"Well, Mrs Hudson, Hamish is now our family too. We promised him."

"John, children need loving families around them. Will it really be best for him to be confined to Sherlock's company for days on end?"

"Sherlock as promised not to treat Hamish as an experiment. I've left him to entertain the boy right now, in fact. Would you like to meet Hamish?"

"I suppose I should," She said, and followed him up the stairs, her hip giving her some trouble but she didn't complain.

When they reached the top of the stairs John held the door open for Mrs Hudson and followed her through. It was odd, john thought, that he trusted Sherlock not to be upsetting the boy when they walked. Sherlock had probably deduced that John would bring Mrs Hudson up to the flat and was on best behaviour. John's first sight of him over Mrs Hudson's shoulder, he was sprawled across the sofa, laptop balanced on his stomach. On the other hand, uncharacteristically, Hamish was perched on the back of the sofa with a puzzled expression, and Gladstone lazily hung over Sherlock's legs. It was like a quirky family photo.

"John!" Hamish perked up as the pair walked in, "Sherlock won't tell me how he figured out the case,"

"He won't tell the dog to move," The detective said, not looking up from his typing.

"I'll tell Gladstone to move if you tell me how you did it,"

"Either tell the dog to move or think,"

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson scolded.

"But Xavier had an alibi! How did you know he was lying!" Hamish complained, dropping on to Sherlock's legs beside his pet.

"Ow!" Sherlock looked at the Hamish and the boy grinned.

"I'm not that heavy, and you can't throw both of us off!" Hamish said proudly, "John, how did he do it?"

"I expect it was body language, or correcting a false statement, a scratch on his wrist or something,"

"The flowers!"

"Yes…" Sherlock said, "Carry on,"

"The flowers around where the body was dumped caused an irritation on the skin; the body didn't have the markings so the police didn't think about it. But Xavier must have had the markings above his wrists where the gloves ended!" Hamish squealed with glee and John saw Mrs Hudson smile,

"Also around his neck where he bend over the body and stood up brushing against the leaves," Sherlock corrected him.

"John! I did it. I'm as smart as him!" Hamish said, bouncing on Sherlock's legs.

"I'm proud of you, now come on then, off his legs before you hurt him. Hamish jumped don and Gladstone flopped on to the floor.

"Hamish, this is Mrs Hudson; our landlady,"

"Hello," Hamish said, going suddenly shy despite her having seen him a bundle of excitement only moments before. Mrs Hudson smiled,

"Hello dear, how old are you then?"

"I'm eleven, I think." He said, before adding, "But I'm smart for my age!"

"Oh I can see that, a few more weeks here and you'll be a match for dear Sherlock won't you,"

"No I won't. He's really clever." John saw Sherlock smirk but said nothing as Hamish carried on, "I think he sees things that aren't there to everyone else," John couldn't help but burst out laughing, but stopped when Sherlock gave him an indignant look.

"Did I say something wrong?" Hamish said, looking up at John with big puppy dog eyes.

"No, no I'm sorry. I'm just looking forward to the days when you see how dense he can be,"

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"But he knows everything!"

"Thank you Hamish," Sherlock said smugly,

"Now, now dear." Mrs Hudson said, walking to Sherlock and clipping him round the back of the head, reminding him against using the child as an the ego boost

"He doesn't know everything, as much as he would like to. Ask him anything about the solar system, or photosynthesis, or something you've learnt at school. He won't have a clue; he'll have deleted it,"

"I, I've never been to school" Hamish muttered, head hung down, ashamed.

"It's okay dear, as you said: you're smarter than your age," Mrs Hudson said, putting an arm around him.

"But I don't know the stuff I'm supposed to!" Hamish protested, going slightly red, embarrassed.

"Well that's no problem, once you've settled into school you'll pick it up in a snap," She said and John could see her motherly tendencies weaving their way back to the surface.

"Does that mean I can stay?" Hamish said, perking up immediately. John did too, as Hamish reached the conclusion before he had himself.

"Of course you're staying, why ever would you think otherwise?" She said, as Hamish threw himself around her in a hug. "Besides, John needs help to keep Sherlock behaving himself," She added.

"I can do that!" Hamish exclaimed pulling away, "Gladstone up!" He pointed to Sherlock's legs and before the older man could react the dog had once again positioned himself on Sherlock's knees and was momentarily asleep. The room erupted into laughter apart from a wailed " Jooooohn!" And this only made the other three laugh harder.


	11. Chapter 11

John had assured Sherlock it was necessary that he walk with Hamish to the school since he had to leave early for the surgery. However, John hadn't told him h that he'd have to suffer the infernal chatter of school gate mums. It was seconds after he'd turned from seeing the young boy run into the playground that he was faced with a woman holding the hand of a pre-school aged child. She seemed over-enthusiastic yet her appearance showed signs of exhaustion and fatigue. The child stood beside her was reaching out to Gladstone who was currently sniffing and whining at the school gates ignoring the child.

"Hi there!" the woman started. "I'm Nicky; I'm the head of the parents' involvement committee. I couldn't help but notice you with Hamish; it's so nice when the extended family is involved with a child's education. I've met his father, so is he your nephew?"

"I have no genetic connection to the boy, he lives with us,"

"Ah, how sweet." The woman said, smile faltering for a moment before returning, though it didn't reach her eyes. Sherlock moved to walk around her but became cornered again.

"Can I at least invite you to come to the coffee morning, Its always good to see new faces getting involved, its every Tuesday and Friday just round the corner in the community building; its always good for a bit of gossip and idea sharing,"

"I doubt it would be of interest to me,"

"Oh everyone's welcome. Its just tea and coffee and sometimes a few people bring cakes to share round; there are a few young single mothers there too,"

"It's not really my …area. Excuse me,"

As Sherlock walked away he saw Hamish looking towards him from across the schoolyard, he nodded once and continued home.

"Sherlock," John had been hovering outside the room for several minutes. Sherlock had disliked that he had had to be moved. He no longer had a view of the street, he could barely hear when anyone came or went in the hallway and he couldn't tell where John was. He felt as disconnected as when he was a thousand miles away.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you? It's about Hamish," Sherlock glanced up to see John stood with his arms folded in the doorway. There were tear marks on John's shoulder and Sherlock felt the onset of guilt. He wasn't supposed to be messing this up, this was important. He turned away from the microscope and looked to John to continue.

"Hamish doesn't think he's fitting in at school,"

"He's only been going there two weeks and he's miles smarter than his teachers,"

"He doesn't think he's going to fit in. He saw you talking to Mrs Daniels,"

"Who?"

"Nicky Daniels, Lucas' mum. Head of the parent council something,"

"She was invasive and boring,"

"Hamish wasn't the only one who heard the conversation,"

"Why should it matter what I say to someone. Hamish has his friends,"

"And when you insult his mum his friends thin you're weird and therefore think Hamish is weird,"

"Hamish is more mature than that,"

"But he still wants to fit in,"

"What would you have me do John?"

"Apologise to the woman,"

"What for,"

"For being dismissive and uninterested and then say you're very sorry and go to one of the coffee mornings or kids reading sessions,"

"Can't you?"

"I'm not the one who caused a scene,"

"I'd rather spend an afternoon with Mycroft,"

"Invite him along too," Sherlock scowled. "Sherlock, I'm asking you to do this for Hamish. He deserves better than you giving ammunition to childish bullies," John waited a moment but Sherlock gave no reaction, keeping his eyes to the floor. A show of remorse well faked John thought, before leaving Sherlock to continue his experiments.

John woke up slowly the next morning. The light coming through the curtains was surprisingly bright and at a glance to the clock showed he was late. Jumping from the bed and into his clothes John stumbled into the front room calling out for Sherlock and Hamish. Neither replied and the house was empty. He text Sherlock asking if Hamish had left for school alright, and when no reply came he then went down to see if Mrs Hudson had heard the pair laving that morning.

"Oh yes dear, the three of them left this morning, Sherlock was searching through my cupboards for a cake of all things. Took that raspberry sponge I made yesterday, said something about a mothers' meeting,"

"Oh he didn't…" John sighed under his breath.

"What was that dear?"

"Uh, nothing, I really should be going,

"I'll see you later dear," Mrs Hudson called as John grabbed his coat and headed to work checking his phone as he shut the door.

_Called clinic, you've got the morning off. SH_

John rolled his eyes pulled his hood up against the rain and switched direction to head towards the school and community centre.

Walking into the old building out of the rain John scanned the room. Several plastic chairs and tables were laid out and small groups of mums and carers were sat at each while the early years children played off in a corner. John's eyes fell to where Sherlock sat, to the edge of one of the groups, tea in hand and Gladstone asleep at his feet; but despite the situation he had a smirk on his face when he too looked up and saw John. Sherlock nodded to the other end of the table he occupied and John had to mirror the smirk hen he saw Mycroft sat uncomfortably talking to Nicky.

"I set the idea in her head that Mycroft was in the position to financially support this group and their endeavours for the school." Sherlock said as John neared after fetching himself a cup of tea, "She seemed quite pleased with the prospect,"

"How on earth did you get him here?"

"National emergency,"

"I bet he loves you,"

"I introduced him as Hamish's philanthropist uncle,"

"Did you talk to Hamish?"

"No…"

"Maybe when he gets home you could…"

"I was recognised by one of the kids there, from the paper. The great detective: soon to be the great children's entertainer if this morning's episode was anything to go by,"

"And to think I missed that by oversleeping,"

"I turned off your alarm,"

"I wondered how that had happened,"

"You wanted me to fix this. Hamish's issues with the other children are resolved I assure you, as are any issue these people had with me,"

"And the morning off work was just to make me feel better about it?"

"I thought you would have liked to witness my brother's discomfort first hand," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, I… Thank you," John said, obviously relieved. A minute passed by as both men sipped their tea and watched the secure and confident Mycroft squirm in discomfort under scrutiny of the other mum's interrogations.

"You know he'll be picking up diet tips from them," Sherlock said which caused John to snort with laughter.

"They'll expect him back here next week too," John replied.

"I'll make sure it's in his diary," Sherlock said, reaching down to fuss Gladstone who promptly rolled over onto his back.


	12. Chapter 12

John paused just outside the front door despite the weight of the shopping in his hands. Through the door he watched as Sherlock stood at the kitchen table, microscope typically in front of him. It wasn't the detective peering down the barrel though, or at least not the elder detective. Sherlock was stood with his hands resting on Hamish's shoulders as the younger, perched on the table and looking through the lenses in awe.

"I thought I told you to keep your experiments downstairs," John joked at he ventured in.

"But it's a science lesson!" Hamish protested when he looked up/

"Exactly John, I'm enhancing his education," Sherlock volunteered, raising an eyebrow as if in challenge.

"Just promise me there aren't any body parts in the close vicinity,"

"How close is close?"

"Anywhere other than your basement," John said as he reached up to refill a cupboard,

"You realise by excluding my work to the basement you demonise it; Sets a very bad example for Hamish's young mind,"

"But I like your work," Hamish said, pulling on Sherlock's sleeve to regain his attention.

"And by the time you're old enough to join me you may think quite differently," Sherlock told him in mock seriousness. Hamish looked quite dejected.

"Hamish do you have any homework?" John asked,

"Uh, yes,"

"Do you want to go find it and I'll help you with it if you'd like," John offered with a smile. Hamish jumped down without another word and his heavy footfalls were soon ascending the stairs. When John heard the footsteps reach the top he turned back to Sherlock.

"I didn't know you'd told him an age limit or your work,"

"I'm unlikely to keep it all from him but I thought you'd appreciate the intention," Sherlock mumbled as h dismantled the sample.

"I do, at least for the purposes of keeping him out of danger,"

"He shares your enthusiasm for adventure,"

"Considering his extensive journey to get here I'm not surprised. What were you showing him?" John asked pushing the spare carrier bags into a cupboard.

"He mentioned his science teacher was telling them about plant and animal cells. It was far too simplistic so I offered to enhance the teaching,"

"Enhance?"

"Yes,"

"No body parts?" John looked at him sceptically.

"I said so didn't I?"

"I'm under no illusions of how easily you fit to lie,"

"I don't lie to you," Sherlock replied defensively.

"Manipulate then, occasionally mislead," John corrected which granted him a scowl.

"Of all my acquaintances," Sherlock replied after a pause, "It both saddens and pleased me that you do not construct pretences and delusions to excuse my behaviours," He meticulously dismantled his microscope avoiding John's eyes as his companion approached him.

"Oh I've been told I have a few delusions," John said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder and waited until Sherlock looked up. "Something about faith in heroes; I think Hamish has picked it up a little too," He said in a hushed tone as the young boy's footsteps returning. When he noticed the smirk threatening to destroy the detective's serious demeanour he added, "Don't let it go to your head,"

Sherlock observed as John then engaged with Hamish and his degradingly useless English reading and spelling work. Sherlock had been informed of it when Hamish had first returned home that afternoon. Sherlock didn't quite understand why Hamish needed John's help; the boy was easily intelligent enough to complete the work on his own but John seemed to feel the need to intervene. Sherlock refrained from commenting as such, he was still pleased with John's obvious approval of the microscope lesson.

Sherlock found it oddly stimulating to engage with Hamish, similarly as he had first engaged with John when they had first met. Hamish's endless interest in his detecting work meant that Sherlock felt no apparent need to impress him; no earning of admiration that wasn't freely although naively and innocently given. Sherlock smiled, and was caught doing so just as John looked up. At John's questioning look Sherlock was drawn from his sentiment.

"Just popping out, I'm taking Gladstone,"

"You okay?" John asked concerned.

"Course, need to think. Data retrieval," John nodded unconvinced.

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"I'll pick something up on the way back," He said nonchalantly as he clipped the lead to Gladstone. Just as he left he noticed the disappointment on Hamish's face. Clearly he was denying the boy access to his great adventures; He'd have to get John to share some of their stories with the boy.

Sherlock wandered several streets from Baker Street before he came across a particularly reliable member of the homeless network. He'd used this particular woman before and new seemed to travel faster once it reached her. This was one message he wanted out as quickly as possible; loud and clear.

At the turn of the second CCTV camera Sherlock began steeling himself for the confrontation with his brother but diverted his route down several alleyways hidden from camera tracking. His endeavour was made more difficult by Gladstone accompanying him. The familiar black car was waiting as Sherlock turned back into Baker Street. With a contemptuous glance he attempted to speed up to return to 221. His attempt was halted when Mycroft stepped from the car.


End file.
